


Intercedo

by sshadier



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Astrals - Freeform, Doomed Timelines, Eventual Romance, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Lore - Freeform, M/M, Slow Burn, Subtle Romance, Suffering, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-21 21:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11952732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshadier/pseuds/sshadier
Summary: In an everlasting cycle, the sun rises and sets to the rhythm of the Scourge as it waxes and wanes. Over and over, the sun rises again and again to the answer of the prince’s long awaited sacrifice. But the answer he gives is not the one which the darkness seeks. [And he swears the eyes of Bahamut are mirrors, holding eons within them; holding an everlasting shackle of pain that neither of them may escape from.]{AU: Noctis is not the true chosen one. AKA, The One Where Noctis Lives... Eventually.}





	1. INTRODUCERE

_“...And it is in this place that the King will gain the power to fulfill his calling.”_

From the Gods’ own hands, Noctis was the chosen. From the very prophecy of the prince’s birth, the curse was cast, and fate seemingly cemented.

“ _Only by the True King’s hand can the immortal Accursed be banished, and the Light restored to this world._ ”

In an everlasting cycle, the sun rises and sets to the rhythm of the Scourge as it waxes and wanes. Over and over, the sun rises again and again to the answer of the prince’s long awaited sacrifice. But the answer he gives is not the one which the darkness seeks.

“ _The King of Kings shall be granted the power to banish the darkness, but the blood price must be paid._ ”

To the tune of a God’s transgressions, the chosen son is born to a world of rot and decay. He must lose and feel the pain of all who rely on his guidance. He is doomed to repeat his sufferings; to live a life filled with war, blood, sacrifice, and death. The object of a God’s curse. 

“ _Many sacrificed all for the king, so must the king sacrifice himself for all_.”

The Fallen King, the true cursed God, watches on as a selfless prince makes the sacrifice in the stead of the true chosen one. Time and time again, Noctis never falters; as decades and  _centuries_  and  _ **eons**_  pass on, it seems the only answer to his repeating suffering is —

“ _Now enter into reflection, that the Light of Providence shine within._ ”

Bahamut sleeps within the crystal to await the coming of his chosen successor, his freedom to only be summoned on that fated night every 30 years, his curse to never see the day of a new dawn. He must ruminate his own guilt and shortcomings. He must watch as the sacrifice intended for himself falls on the shoulder of Noctis Lucis Caelum. 

**The natural fate of the world awaits the penitence of Bahamut.**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all who are interested in this WIP of mine! I had this theory, you see, ever since I finished FFXV back in March. I thought to myself, what if there was a timeline, or a universe, where Noctis could have lived? (Okay, so maybe I was more than a little bit desperate to make myself happy and force a scenario in which he could.) It's been nearly six months since I considered the idea and the theory that FFXV is actually a looping universe... I think it's finally time for me to bring it to life. 
> 
> In all truth, I have no idea how long this will be, but I do know that I want to write it. So I hope all of you will join me in this journey! I know this introduction was short, but I wanted to get my thoughts out there before I continued on with it. Please share your thoughts with me, I'd love to know what you think!


	2. APRICATE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apricate; — v. "to bask in the sun."

   It was not always that the Astrals were at rest.

   There was a time, centuries ago, in which the holy beings of Eos were united in their most harmonious age. In a time before The Great War of Old, the ancient conflict which succeeded in obliterating the early nation of faithful humans, the Hexatheon were an active and triumphantly wise group, almost exclusively worshiped. Though they themselves cared little about the small details of everyday human life, their subservient audience listened day and night to any beck and call from the heavens. So it was that they ruled — _truly ruled_ over the land they resided. Not even a day would pass by that they wouldn’t look down from their heavenly observatory to contemplate the little simple _things_ that couldn’t have possibly been any different than colonies of rats or ants.

    Sharing her time among these leaders was Eos; her namesake, the land itself. She was the Goddess which could bring the coming days to fruition, the Goddess of the Dawn. Her likeness was fair, beautiful, and most of all _pure_ — by looks alone, one might fall in love, though it was through her honesty and kindness that she gained trust and respect. Some even considered that it was _she_ who created the land, entrusting it to mortal life so they might maintain it. To harm the land was to harm Eos herself.

    But of course, the history of Eos was wrought with tragedy and pain. The Goddess of the Dawn and her land were not destined to live in harmony forever. It was by the judgement of The Six, most of all he who was once said to cast out his divine judgement, Bahamut, to punish her sin in the most brutish fashion. The severity of her crimes was enough to warrant her banishment out of the realm of the living, into the underworld, where she lay a prisoner to suffer under the disease of darkness, away from all living things she adored. Though her sin stood alone, it had been enough to prompt severe retribution.

    Eos, Goddess of the Dawn, had fallen in love with a human. To him she gave two sons, who surely retained human form, and yet still felt the blood of the Astrals within them. 

    She _pleaded_ for their lives to be spared, willing to accept any fate so long as they might be saved from execution. Though she did not know the extent to which the scourge of the underworld would ravage her body, Eos willingly resigned to her punishment. But she was loved by more than one — more than just the father of her children was Ifrit, the Infernian, and at the trial from which she was given her judgement he spoke out against the decision, met with exasperation and disbelief. 

    “ **You would not spare her any fair mercy?** ” He spoke aloud to Bahamut, though it would seem much more like a growl of sorts, for he was anger, and he was fire, and he was ferocity incarnate.

    “ **There is no fair mercy in such a damnable convergence,** ” Bahamut stated back with finality, an iron sword forged with steadfast righteousness that surely made him befitting of his title, _The Bladekeeper_. Along with the exile he placed on the Goddess Eos, he entrusted the Archaean, Titan, to guard the door to the underworld, holding her within her prison no matter the circumstance.

    But Ifrit was decided in his actions against her punishment. By one way or another, he would take her back from the darkness and rot she had been cast down into, even if the price would be his life. Knowing that his actions were treacherous did little to hinder his thinking, and the same could be said about the danger of such a trip. Even for the Astrals, the underworld was rarely traversed — rarely ever meant for anything wishing to come back out in one living piece. But this only ever fueled the anger he felt towards Bahamut. For Eos, Ifrit considered that being in the underworld almost surely meant a fate worse than death.

    Among the Six, Ifrit's plans were no secret, nor did he plan to act as if it was. Though the severity of Bahamut’s punishment created an air of uneasiness between the heavens, they did little to defend Ifrit’s rage, and even less to defend his plans of rescue. Even if they wished to help, the underworld was not a place to be taken lightly, and betrayal was not a slight crime to commit. So it was on his own that Ifrit began to wage his war, driving away the lifetimes of peace that the Astrals and the Humans beneath them had known. There was no living being, save for Eos herself, that he held any respect or love for. To the world that wronged the Goddess he loved, he only felt contempt.

    The violence, war and blood raged on against the beings of Eos, save for a single moment in the early break of the morning that Ifrit would let the sunrise catch his eye. As if Eos herself was shining down on him somehow, beyond the skies instead of trapped beneath the soil. At the same time of every dawn he would breathe, slowly looking down as the light caressed his face, promising the skies that one day he would bring her back to see the light she so graciously gave.

* * *

    “ **Come on, Noct, it’ll be fun!** ”  


    A light sigh could be heard above the dull roar of the high school crowd, young girls and boys passing between lockers and classrooms before the bell could signal that their short break was over. A fair amount of them glanced over their shoulders to sneak a peek at him, the everlasting sore thumb under the eye of the public. But neither him nor Prompto paid them any attention anymore; besides being far used to the attention, there was an important decision for the two of them to make.  


    “ **Dancing? I was never good at it.** ”  


    “ **That’s the point, man. It’s all about the practice —** ”  


    As a demonstration of the practice he wanted to convey, Prompto held his arms out in front of himself to embrace his imaginary dance partner, and they spun several times with intense flourish. Noctis stood watching, one hand frozen inside of his locker, doing little to hold back a laugh at the ridiculous spectacle. Prompto gave himself a mental pat on the back as he excused himself from the invisible partner, bowing to exaggerate his genteel performance, and gave Noctis a laugh in turn. The moments like these were his favorite, where in his own happiness he could forget every embarrassing attempt to befriend the prince in the past.

    The two had been friends for more than a year now, thanks to Prompto's newfound high school confidence. In some ways it was the most difficult thing that Prompto had ever done, but in other ways, it was also the easiest. That was what it meant to have a real friend, he thought; on the other side of his solitude and forced jokes borne from nervousness was true relief: relief from the rooms full of people which seemed to only add to his loneliness, and relief from the uncertainty of acceptance — the risk of rejection. _Worse than any rejection I could get from a girl,_ Prompto figured to himself, yet _that_ was something he was content to never say out loud. 

    “ **Yeah, you and your invisible dance partners are gonna have a great time at the formal.”**  


    “ **Uh, I think you mean you, me, _and_ my invisible dance partners.** ”  


    In the coming weeks, Prompto resolved to attend at least a few of the numerous scheduled dance workshops that their school provided for the coming of the winter formal: a night full of music, dancing, _romance..._  for _some_ people, at least. The two boys figured that if they went, they would be going together without a date. As much of a flirt Prompto tended to be, he was truthfully much more shy than he liked to admit, and Noctis couldn’t say that he wanted to go through the hassle of answering the typical barrage of questions he tended to receive from girls that spoke to him. 

    _How many servants do you have? Don’t you get royal training? Why even bother with public school? Is your family really that rich? Do the teachers give you special treatment? Is that why you’re top of the class? Why bother with it if you’re already a Prince?_

    Just thinking of it all made him tired — his typical mode of coping. Many might think of him as such a sleepy person from the weight of responsibility, living on his own while going to school and staying at the top of his class, but they wouldn't be entirely correct. While his minimal princely duties did make him more busy than the average student, sleep was an easy way to dispel the stress that always built up in his temples, just behind his eyes. Speaking of which, there must have been a glaze over his vision, or perhaps Prompto was just that receptive to Noctis' somnambulism, so he waved his hand in front of his friends face hoping he might snap out of his stupor.  


    After a moment of realizing that it was best to stay awake in the hallway, Noctis answered. “ **Fine, I’ll come along with you.** ”  


    “ **Sweet! It’s gonna be great, you’ll see.** ”  


    The problems of teenage boys were simple enough. They were straightforward, Noctis realized, and he enjoyed it as much as he was able. He liked being treated as if he were any other citizen of the Kingdom (even if the glances he received in the hallway didn’t fully support that statement), where he could spend time away from royal worries like the Imperials. The wall. The health of his father.  


    That wasn’t to say that he didn't hold any curiosity for the inner workings of politics, or that he didn’t want to know it at all, but he had long accepted that his father wasn’t raising him to be particularly _royal_ or _princely_. Of course he had his training, and he read the reports of royal meetings that Ignis would bring around every so often, but he lived away from his father. He went to public school, and had normal friends, and otherwise lived a less formal life than probably any other prince might live. Periodically, he would think and wonder why; if his mother’s death had anything to do with it, or the attack from his childhood and his injury in general, or the growing tension between the Imperials and Lucis. Undoubtedly, while he considered all of the factors of his upbringing, something small would nag at the back of his mind.   


    In one way or another, Noctis felt an inexplicable anxiety from within the depths of his heart whenever he considered the future of Lucis. He never thought to tell a soul, thinking that his body may just be dealing with stress in a more dreadful way than is normal to do, but as he continued to grow older, it only happened with more fervor than the years that passed.   


    _Nothing that some sleep can’t fix_ , he thought to himself, coming to sit at his classroom desk just before the start of his class. To him, it was simply clockwork now. If he was lucky, nobody would notice, but even if he wasn’t so lucky, sleep seemed to be the only remedy for his punishing doses of uneasiness. So with the afternoon sun shining down on him from the classroom window, he shut his eyes and laid his head on his arm, allowing the warmth and drowsiness to overtake any bad feeling that gnawed at the edges of his soul.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no other way to kick this off than some good ol' Ancient Lore. I think I like this kind of format in all honesty, half-lore and half-main story. Both will undoubtedly continue (and come together into one narrative!) soon enough, where the main plot will take place during the major events of the game itself; we're still setting up some exposition here, so in the meantime please tell me your thoughts! Thank you for reading!


	3. DESIDERIUM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> desiderium; — n. "an ardent longing, as for something lost."

    The first task of the perilous, draining journey into the underworld was a feat in and of itself: moving past the Archaean, Titan himself,  _God of the Earth_. His strength could not be surpassed by many, and it was he that held the door to the underworld shut, barring Ifrit’s way forward. But the tenacious Infernian was still decided in Eos’ rescue. The war had already been waged, his betrayal against the rest of the Hexatheon irreversible. 

    It was not beneath him to play wretched tricks on the Archaean, or to call down catastrophes onto the earth itself so he might make another door. It was not entirely impossible; Ifrit truly believed that even in its smallest possibility, he would be able to bring from it some successful outcome. Any other Astral may have been conservative in the way they tore through rock and foundation, but Ifrit abandoned all sense of preservation in his rage. For a time meteors rained down from the sky on his command, paying no mind to living mortal or Astral alike — until Ifrit’s most impressive summon, the astral shard, fell on the shoulders of the Archaen. The collision between shard and Astral caused the artifact to break apart and even further devastate the surrounding landscape.

    In the resulting havoc was a crash site so cutting in the earth that Ifrit knew he may follow it down into the underworld, to his beloved.

    From the beginning of his descent to the time he came to emerge, decades must have passed to the surviving mortals on the surface. They witnessed the deaths of thousands, the wrath from the skies taking a toll on their homes in reckless abandon. A place they came to name the  _Disc of Cauthess_  served as a testament to the horrors they faced, though the legend telling of the Astral that caused it would later be lost to time. Instead, they had known it as the resting place for the Archaean, Titan, and constant tremors beneath their feet were recognized as none other than his life force straining against the weight of the meteorite.

    The rest of the Six waited for Ifrit from above. Patiently. There would be catastrophic consequences if he managed to succeed in his goal of bringing Eos back from the underworld; they knew they must be ready to combat the following infections. The rot and unholiness of the underworld, if brought to the land where mortals existed, could spawn Daemons beyond human intervention or expectation. Such lowly creatures could even infect the Astrals themselves — allowing such opposing forces as “ _the living_ ” and “ _the damned_ ” to coexist could only end in ruin. Bahamut knew this, and yet...

    Down below, Ifrit battled them one by one, slaying entire armies of darkness that fought to infect his soul. His face and body became stained with their black, smokey blood but there was no other path to take. Eos was in the deepest pits of hell, and to get to her, Ifrit had no choice but to forge through. Bahamut had chosen to place her holy body in a dark, damnable place, where it did not belong, no matter her choice of sin. No matter her choices, or her actions. 

    “ **Holy justice is rot,** ” he would tell himself again and again as seemingly endless foes lined up to have their turn at Ifrit’s flesh. To remind him of the anger he wanted to hold on to. To let his wrath build into flame, as if he could ever purify the spawn of all Daemons. As if, down in the underworld, soaking in his betrayal, there was even a drop of holiness left for him.

    Those words he repeated to himself, as he descended further and further into the cesspool of darkness that was the underworld, contained such sorrowful truth that once his tired eyes managed to catch sight of her after all his years of endless battle, there were no more words to be said. Every flame of anger immediately extinguished. Chains of entrapment around her, holding her exhausted body directly above the shadowy infections, trapped him in place as well. For a long moment, he could only watch her shallow breaths and her unfocused gaze.

    Along her torso, down to her thighs, was seeping disease. It billowed off of her like steam, indubiously just as painful as it looked to be. After so many years, Ifrit thought it must have weakened her, for the Goddess of the Dawn looked as if her days (and dawns) were numbered.

    _Irony, the invention of the Gods._

    He took a single step forward and halted again, for she had cried out a breathless “ **No,** ” at the action. As unfocused as she was, she could still see that he was no hallucination. “ **It has already taken this body, it cannot take yours as well.** ”

    “ **This is no rightful place to stay.** ” Another step, and another groan of disagreement. He did not stop this time.

    “ **You will not honor the demands of a dying Goddess?** ”

    Her words did not hold the weight of a command, more of a desperate plea that Ifrit might spare himself from the scourge that disfigured her own body. She could not clearly see that he was already taken hold by it, beneath his charred skin.  

    “ **You will not die.** ”

    “ **He made it so, Ifrit. Have you no clue as to what you imply?** ”

    “ **You will not die.** ”

    “ **I will. I must. If you betray him —** ”

    “ **I already have.** ”

    Sorrow was clear in her face at the realization that her sin caused such a chain of conflict, breaking ancient peace between their company and undeniably causing unrest among the mortals beneath them. Eos could not look into his eyes, out of shame, and yet still he broke the iron of her shackles with his waning strength. He wanted to feel angry again, to let the ruthlessness run through his blood, but the more he heard her speak he could only feel desperation. She was so quiet, he wondered to himself if she had less time than he thought before.

    The Infernian took her into his arms, caring very little that her infection would spread to him as long as he held her so.

    With the last of his strength resting on their escape, he broke into a run.

* * *

    Background noise of equal parts  _mumbling_  and  _sizzling_  kept Noctis’ mind occupied for a good amount of his shift. It had been his father’s idea for Noctis to take a part-time job after school, to teach him at least a small amount of the hard work of the Kingdom’s people. Truthfully, Noctis didn’t much mind it; though the nights could get busy and sometimes left him to tiredly cram for his studies, the work was honest, and yet another example of a place where he could merely be another citizen of his Kingdom.

    But today, with approximately ten minutes left to his shift, he was accompanied by a fond distraction.

    Prompto was no stranger to the busboys and chefs that worked with Noctis regularly. He came in enough during Noct’s shifts to know most of them by name and exchange polite conversation while the prince would finish with his day’s work, off to Prompto’s company for the rest of the night. And on this night in particular, the two of them were to attend a night class.

    A dance class.

    “ **Who knows, you might get to meet Miss Future Caelum, yeah?** ” One of the other cooks nudged Noctis with his elbow, but the prince shook his head with a sigh. Before he could explain his disagreement, Prompto came to his rescue, sparing him the energy.

    “ **Nah, this formal’s for bro’s night. We’re gonna par-tay! Right Noct?** ”

    “ **Ah, yeah. Par-tay.** ”

    “ **Hey, at least try and sound convincing.** ”

    “ **I am, as long as you won’t be ditching me to go flirt with that girl you sit behind in second period-** ”

    “ **Consider me your humble servant,** ” Prompto gave a deep bow in earnest, to which Noctis kicked at his shins. “ **Ow! You assh-** ”

    “ **Woops. My foot slipped.** ”

    “ **It did not!** ”

    The kitchen shared a dull roar of chuckles at the spectacle as their not-so-serious argument went on, adding to the mumbling of diners and sizzling of fryers. With only five minutes left on his shift, Noctis was sure that it wouldn’t do any harm, but that was a particularly incorrect assessment. In all of his distracted work, he misjudged the distance between his hand and the pan on the stove.

    Burning metal seared the back of his hand and the pan itself fell to the floor, spilling its contents about the linoleum as its victim let out a cry of pain. A line of vibrant red lay vertically across his skin, just under the joint of his middle finger, and in the spare quarter-of-a-second between the burn and the  _realization_ of the burn, something else flashed in his subconsciousness. The sensation of being burned before, though he knew he never had. Not like that. There was the weight of something heavy on his finger, as if it sapped away at his strength. As if it might claim his whole arm while it was there.

    In the span of a quarter-of-a-second, as his nerves rushed to send the acknowledgement of pain to the synapses of his brain, Noctis lived another life entirely. It was obvious as per the look in his eyes, not entirely cognizant, to the onlooking Prompto, who was nearly just as quick to jump to his aid as the pain in Noctis’ skin.

    While Noctis held the injury with his free hand, Prompto leapt for the ice box towards the back of the kitchen. Just as he had been there long enough to know most of their names, he also knew his fair way around, oftentimes lending a hand on their more busy nights. 

    With a fistful of ice haphazardly thrown and wrapped into a towel, Prompto ran back to Noctis’ side and eased Noctis’ injured hand into his own. The ice earned another hiss from the prince, which made Prompto wince in turn, though he knew it would help eventually. In more way than one, it did; besides taking away the heat from the burn, the cold also brought Noctis back to his feet in the real world, snapped out of whatever nightmarish vision which came to him.

    “ **Go ahead and turn in early,** ” the other cook offered apologetically. If Noctis were the stereotypical royal brat, he could have ordered that the restaurant be shut down, or they pay for the damages, but all of them knew he wasn’t that kind of person. He was grateful for the ice, and sorry for the food. And that was as simple as he wanted to be. “ **There were only a few minutes left in your shift anyway. We’ll clean up, don’t worry about it.** ”

    “ **Sorry, chef. Won’t happen again.** ”

    “ **It better not,”** Prompto interjected, still cradling Noctis’ hand under the ice he held.  **“You’re too young to lose a hand.** ”

    “ **Don’t exaggerate, it was just a burn.** ” With his free hand, he untied his apron and hung it up on its hook just outside the exit, with Prompto in tow. It wasn’t until they stepped outside that Noctis took the makeshift ice pack for himself, letting it up so he could see the burn underneath. It looked as irritated as a fresh burn should be, but by then it was only throbbing, most of the hot pain relieved by the cold.

    “ **We can just stay in tonight if you want,** ” Prompto offered, pulling a red bandanna out of his pocket and tying it around Noctis’ burned hand. At the raise of the prince’s eyebrow, Prompto mumbling something along the lines of, “ **It’s just until you can get Ignis to treat it for you.** ”

    “ **No, let’s go anyway. It’s just a little burn.** ”  

    “ **It didn’t look like it at first.** ”

    Prompto’s tone was considerably more serious than Noctis was accustomed to. It showed in the way that his eyes widened, freezing in some expression of slight disbelief that Prompto chose to be so somber. Whatever he wanted to say was lost in his throat; Prompto looked genuinely concerned, like he figured his injury was far more than a simple burn. He continued on in the hushed tone he started in, not wanting any other person on the night’s street to hear what he said.

    “ **It scared the hell out of me, like you weren’t in your own body anymore. The way your eyes were focusing on something that wasn’t there. It was like... I don’t even know, Noct. Like you were looking right through me.** ”

    Moments of vulnerable honesty were incredibly rare to Prompto. Hardly did he ever touch on the quiet chaos of his heart, or his mind, but the few times that Noctis had seen it were enough to tell him that Prompto had thoughts that ran deeper than most other people’s. At times, Noctis wondered if he could be hiding something, but then wouldn’t Prompto just be honest? They were friends, weren’t they? 

    At the very least, he was perceptive. Incredibly so. If Prompto had to admit it, however, he just thought he paid more attention to Noctis than other people did. They saw the sleepy prince, the semi-rude and semi-awkward boy who only really spoke when spoken to. But Prompto saw the working cogs, the differences between daydreams and contemplation. He could tell the sarcastic smirks from the genuine ones, and he somehow always knew if Noctis was truly asleep or simply faking it. It wasn’t even a conscious obligation, really; it came to Prompto rather easily, and over the course of the year they had been friends, he had learned most of what he needed to know simply by using his eyes.

    Deep down, he wondered if the bar code on his wrist was any indication of how quickly he caught onto these things, but if there was one thing Prompto despised to think about, it was his tattoo.

    “ **Are you sure you’re alright to go?** ”

    “ **I...** ” Noctis struggled to decide whether or not he should speak up about what he saw in that flash of time. “ **...You’re right. I couldn’t see you. Some kind of... dream.** ”

    Prompto halted in his steps, fully willing to talk it out in the alleyway, but Noctis only looked back at him for a second before he started ahead again, clearly not wanting to expand on what he saw. And Prompto honored the silent wish, knowing that if Noctis wanted to talk about it, that he would in his own time.

    And Noctis was grateful that Prompto knew that about him too.

    It was after a few minutes of quiet walking that Noctis offered all he felt able to. “ **Thanks for the ice. And the bandanna.** ”

    A simple chuckle and a pat on the back followed. “ **Humble servant, remember?** ”

    His shins were glad that a kick didn’t follow this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love tragedy more than I'd like to admit.
> 
> I would like to thank and credit perona77, the reddit user who theorized the lore of Pitioss ruins (which, as it turned out to be in their theory, was quite the love story between Ifrit and Eos). Their theory helped me expand my own theory of time loops and chosen ones, which will of course come to light later in this story.
> 
> Please leave your thoughts below, I'd love to hear them! And of course, thank you for reading.


	4. CORUSCATE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coruscate; — v. “to reflect brilliantly; to sparkle.”

    Her sorrow was far heavier than her body… whatever it was that her body had become. She was numb after so many years spent suffering alone, the disease eating away at her so slowly that she knew  _torture_ to be the only fitting description of her punishment. 

    Vile, unbridled torture.

    The notion that she would become infected with the disease of the underworld was, in and of itself, the cruelest penitence any Astral could demand of her. It was not the  _notion_  of being punished for her crimes against the balance of mortal and astral, but instead the sharp teeth and blackened smoke which tore through her body. It was the loss of voice from years of screaming, and the loss of skin from Daemons’ claws, and loss of sanity in a world unfitting of her kind. But Eos held onto the warmth that carried her up and away.  _Warm_ ;he was so  _warm_  in a way that nothing else in the depths could be. As charred he may be, it was the most comfort she’d had since being with her own sons, at peace, and everything right in the world. Vaguely, she wondered where they were, and hoped that if misfortune befell them, in no way was it comparable to being broken out of her hellish jail.

    Thoughts of home were warm as well, warm as any living mortal thing could be. But she was not ignorant. She knew what fate befell her, even with her consciousness manipulated by darkness. 

    With great care, she reached up to cup his scorched face as he ran. They left behind what looked like infinite hordes of Daemons, which Ifrit knew he mustn’t face unless he wished for both him and his beloved to die before they reached the surface. 

    Over the low rumbling of rock and creaking groans of yearning Daemons, she whispered something to him, but this time he could not hear her. So she pushed through the pain in her lungs more than she had before, fighting to say her peace. 

    “ **Ifrit. If we make it to the surface…** ”

    They were both silent, in waiting.

    “ **…Burn me.** ”

    Ifrit did not stop his gait, but did glance down at her form so he could study her face before he answered. The two of them were infected, but did he care? Was it up to him to decide the fate of the scourge on the surface? If he purified her in fire, she would surely lose her body completely, but would he have her live on with the disease? No matter what happened to them, it seemed like an endless flurry of no-wins and bad ends.

    “ **You cannot let the scourge infect the dawn. As long as this body is purified, the dawn will live on in my heart. I will it so.** ”

    “ **…Save your energy, lest you not make it in your fatigue.** ”

    “ **Even so.** ”

    If it were any other, Ifrit may have already given up. He might have left her body to suffer in the underworld by herself and no other company but the Daemons, if that meant saving his own body. But for her, he would listen to her insistence. The way she stated her will so strongly in spite of her rampant weakness was like a reminder of the days they spent in peace with the rest of the Hexatheon.

    They were the days that Ifrit came closest to treasuring, for seeing Eos smile in happiness was like watching the brightest sunrise, pink against the clouds and orange atop the landscape. But down here, she did not smile. All she could do was keep her palm against the warmth of his cheek as they slowly transformed into nothing but damnable creatures of darkness.

    “ **Still in death, this body must be purged of the scourge. All that awaits them is darkness and filth. The blotting of the sun, of my light. The only future will become tainted with the scourge. I beg of you —** ”

    But she did not need to beg, for Ifrit gave her silent agreement just beyond their final steps in the underworld. 

    Darkness was scattered into the night sky, but the stars above them were clear, just as Ifrit was clear in his intentions. Down the landscape, he carried Eos to an empty rock, later fated to be named Ravatogh, and laid her across the hard earth. In their time spent coming back to the surface, her infection had spread to most of her body. Her breathing was labored and her eyes could only barely open anymore. The only pure part of her left was the single wing on her back, stretched out behind her, like she wished to reach out and touch the stars above. But her only wish was to save her people, and Ifrit’s only wish was to save the crystal heart within her. The only piece of her that was destined to remain.

    So it was in a circle around them that he raised purifying fires to soon encompass their infected bodies. Not even the morning dew of a distant dawn would be able to put it out; this was a pyre made of a dying God’s will. 

    She understood then that Ifrit had been infected too, and she had indirectly asked him to give his own life on her behalf. But he wouldn’t have ever asked her to feel guilt. Instead, he laid himself next to her and allowed the fires to crawl up the infection, eating it away in every little ounce of holiness that hid away in his own heart. But Eos was still awake. She was still alive, in spite of everything. Gently, she held him, understanding and accepting that their deaths would be together. Truthfully, she gained peace from it, just as he did.

    With the last breath of her lungs, the fire only just beginning to expose the crystal heart within her, she sang for them a final comfort; a song she’d heard the humans sing in the wake of death. It was the only sound left in the air, save for the distant Astrals beginning to close in on the pyre. Even as far away as they were, they could hear her song resonating, and even see her heart glittering against the pyre's light.

_Cold blows the wind to my true love, and gently falls the rain.  
_ _I never had but one true love, and soon he will lay slain._

_My breast is cold as the clay; my breath is earthly strong.  
_ _And if you kiss my cold, clay lips, your days will not be long._

_‘Tis I, ’tis I, thine own true love that rests atop your grave.  
_ _I ask one kiss from your sweet lips and that is all that I crave._

_How oft on yonder grave, sweetheart, where we were wont to walk,  
The fairest flower that I e’re saw has withered to a stalk. _

_When will we meet again, sweetheart? When will we meet again?_  
_When the autumn leaves that fall from trees are green, and spring up —_  
 _Again._

* * *

    The very first time Prompto Argentum ever held a gun, he swore he could feel countless eyes on the back of his head, waiting for him to make a mistake.  _Don’t drop it,_  his inner voice repeated like sacred gospel.  _Don’t point it anywhere but the target. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot_. _Don’t make a fool out of yourself. Don’t say anything embarrassing._  It went on while he attempted to listen to his tutor as well; between the intimidation of his weapon and the man instructing him how to use it, Prompto almost couldn’t focus. Almost. One thing in particular kept him grounded.

    “ **You’ll do great. Just give it a shot.** ” After a quick pat on the shoulder, Noctis stepped back, and Prompto took a deep breath.

    His arm raised up and his muscles hummed as he held the heavy metal. It was a different kind of sensation than anything he’d done before, but he knew he would have to get used to it at some point. Only under this condition could he accompany Noctis in the coming weeks.  _Married_ , he reminded himself.  _They’ll have a pretty, royal wedding, and put an end to the war, and live happily ever after together_.

    He hated that he hesitated, his gaze falling from the target to the ground, his arm slacking in its stiff hold of the gun. For a quick second, Prompto remembered the night he found out about everything. The wedding, the Crownsguard training, the road trip — he remembered the sinking in his heart that he attempted to shove aside for his “ _normal”_  happy self, and how no matter how much he struggled against it, it came back to him again and again. Never had he been made to face it in front of others, however, and the change in the atmosphere was so clear that even Noctis took notice.

    But Noctis didn’t have time to say anything, or offer any sort of comfort. Just as quickly as it came, it passed, like something (or someone) else took over completely.

    From above, a passing cloud shaded the training grounds and Noctis noticed Prompto’s eyes darken in the absence of sunlight. His arm locked once more, feet planted into the earth and stereotypical smile flattening into a slight frown. Like this, Noctis thought that Prompto was decently frightening, and watched on in disbelief when Prompto pulled the trigger.

    The bullet hole had been shot straight through the middle of the target.

    It was completely silent as the cloud passed, the sun finding them all once again. A gleam partially blinded them all; it was the glisten of the gun, which after a deeply-felt pause, was raised to the target and shot several more times. Each hole was within touching distance — out of a full round of six bullets, Prompto did not miss a single one.

    The uncharacteristic ruthlessness dissipated almost immediately after the ammunition was spent. His blue eyes widened and a light laugh bubbled forward from the back of his throat like a child in awe. Whatever darkness was in him for the span of approximately nine seconds was gone completely, but Noctis knew what he saw. From there, it was only a question of if Noctis had the heart to ask about it, and whether or not Prompto would want to talk about it. Some things, as Noctis personally knew himself, were better left underneath blankets of pretense and inner contemplation.

    “ **Damn, kid, are you sure you haven’t done this before?** ” His name was Gladio, and he was just the kind of muscle-composed-wall that one might expect a combat tutor to be.

    In response, Prompto nodded. “ **Maybe it’s just… beginner’s luck?** ”

    With no other alternative to consider, the entourage of spectators were very much inclined to believe him, but something gave them the impression that if he stepped up to the target again, he would produce just the same results as the first round. There was no doubt that his performance was  _not_  the end of his training, however. There was much more to learn than just the art of aiming; what with the trip commencing in a grand total of a few weeks, Prompto knew he had to spend every day there so he could hone his craft.

    This was the main reason why Noctis offered to share his apartment until their travels. Having already spent copious amount of time together, they knew there was no problem to be had between them. Only in harmless banter did they ever come close to annoying each other, which is to say, they never did. After the span of nearly three years of friendship, having each other’s company was a great comfort. And in times such as the ones they faced now, they needed as much comfort as they could possibly get. It was astonishing that they both managed to stay mentally intact, considering the nightmares and royal problems of the prince, and inner doubts and anxieties of the pauper. Astonishing because amidst so much inner turmoil, it was very seldom vocalized. They had a way of simply knowing when the other was struggling, and for a long time, that had been enough.

    But that night, it was not enough.  _Nothing could ever be enough,_ Prompto thought, the glamour of the day shed away to the hesitance which he held in his palm that very morning. He knew where he came from, and why he knew exactly how to hold a gun without any help. How to shoot it. How it felt through his body. The crack in the air. It was an instinct that had been born into him from that wretched place, something he would never be able to cut out of himself, or forget, or hide. And in the darkness of Noctis’ room, where Prompto attempted to sleep next to him, this truth was heavier than any weight in the world. He was so caught up in thought, staring upwards at the ceiling, he didn’t even notice that Noctis was awake.

    “ **Something on your mind?** ”

    “ **Oh, you scared me,** ” Prompto let out a nervous laugh, but did not answer the question.

    “ **…Are you alright? You seem a bit off today.** ”

     _Off_  was an understatement and they both knew it. “ **Huh? Oh, you know. It’s nothin’.** ”

    “ **That’s not really what I’d call it.** ”

    “ **I don’t know, man. It’s just a little nerve-wracking.** ”

    “ **You can say that again. I’m just glad you agreed to come along, almost thought you’d say no.** ”

    “ **Wait, really?** ” Finally Prompto turned his head to look at Noctis, who had been staring up at the ceiling just the same. “ **You’re my best friend, Noct. No way I’d say no. It’s your wedding, of course I’m gonna go.** ”

    “ **It’s dangerous. You know that. Dad says this is gonna end the war, but who knows what the Empire has planned?** ”

    In the darkness, Prompto blinked. Of course it was a political marriage. Noctis didn’t talk about it much, but Prompto had simply figured he’d rather not expose that part of himself —  _romantic, lovey, charming,_  whatever word there was for it that Prompto couldn’t say himself. The way Noctis was so private about his past with Luna had created an endless stream of possibilities in Prompto’s mind. That they loved each other since childhood. That the notebook they passed back and forth was filled with enamored love letters. That Noctis had come up with the idea himself, and proposed with his own hand, and his own will.

    In all truth, Prompto felt a bit guilty that those details were the ones which he dwelled on the most.  _We’re people on the brink of war, you idiot. Stop thinking about things that aren’t any of your business._

    “ **Well, you’re not going alone. We’ll be there every step of the way. And with _my_  sharpshooting, nothing’s gonna stop us.**”

    To that, Noctis gave a contented laugh and turned to lay on his side, away from Prompto, in case he would be able to see that a bad seed was planted in his thoughts about leaving. That everything about leaving Insomnia made him homesick and nervous weeks in advance. There was just something  _wrong_ with everything and it manifested in daydreams and nightmares alike. It appeared in everyday things that weren’t supposed to be so dark or ominous, but they were without even a hint of provocation. He wanted relief from it all but it was only in dreamless sleep that Noctis was anything other than apprehensive. It was something he couldn’t even admit to himself, let alone Prompto: that deep down he was scared.

    Scared of everything.

    The two boys lay back to back, away from each other, hiding their secrets underneath silence and fake emotion. 

_Someday,_  they both vowed,  _I’ll tell him. Everything that I can’t say now, I’ll say someday, and it will be the most relieving thing to tell him after all this time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If you find someone you love in life, you must hang onto it, and look after it. You must protect it.” — Princess Diana. (Though I know some of you are too young to know who she was, her words still ring true.)
> 
> One last chapter remains for the legacy of Bahamut’s history, and then we continue on to the present, where our beloved boys meet their fate… again and again. But perhaps the Astrals aren’t the only ones who can remember these failed timelines, these more-bitter-than-sweet endings….
> 
> (P.S., Eos’ swan song is called The Unquiet Grave. Fitting, no?)


End file.
